


The Great Pretender

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Impersonation, M/M, Pretending, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: A short man in a long coat, being haughty. A tall man in a short coat being super sweary. Nobody's sure whose idea this was, but it's going to end in fantastic sex.





	The Great Pretender

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Pretending

“The chair has been moved,” declared the detective, pausing in his grand sweep about the room to point accusingly at the black leather armchair. “And that.” The grandiloquent finger of accusation jabbed at the more cosy armchair opposite the first. “ **That** ,” he said meaningfully, “Is significant.”

His companion, arms crossed, gazed at him with expectant adoration.

“Is it significant?” the detective continued, whirling in a circle, hands to his temples. His coat flared out above his ankles. “Why is it significant? Ha!” The detective clapped his hands together once, sharply, and he grinned at his companion with the delighted dawning of understanding. “Quick. What was it you said?”

“You’re fucking amazing,” said his companion.

“No, before that.”

His friend and colleague tugged on his too-short black jacket and raised his chin. “I said you’re hot as fuck; do me.”

“No, no, no,” the detective waved his hand dismissively, “Concentrate! What did you say when we arrived?”

Friend-and-colleague huffed a bit, crossed his arms more tightly and said, doubtfully, “I said, if those fucking pigeons don’t shut the fuck up outside that window while I’m trying to think, I’m taking my gun out and shooting the lot of them. You fucking watch me.”

“Yes!” The detective made another showy whirl, staggered a bit, nearly tripped over the overlong coat, and righted himself before face-planting. “Exactly right. What happened here, you see, is that a man, trying to complete the Sunday crossword, became so incensed at the fucking pigeons that his friend… no, not friend. _Lover_. His _lover_ decided to take his boyfriend to the park. And got side-tracked.”

The friend-and-colleague had returned to the adoring gaze motif. He might even have clasped his hands together in order to look more enamoured. “Side-tracked?”

“With snogging. And champagne. And a surprise anniversary picnic. It seems the cross crossword bloke was not cross about the pigeons. He thought his lover had forgotten the anniversary.”

“And he hadn’t?”

“ ** _No!”_** Another emphatic gesture nearly saw the detective trip over his own shoelaces. He stood up straight again, waggled his eyebrows, then waggled his finger. “He had not. For his _lover_ , while seeming not to give two hot fucks about convention, is quite a romantic at heart.”

“Surely not.”

“Consider the evidence!! A picnic hamper hidden in the rose garden! Champagne! A picnic blanket! Cheese! Cider! Hummus! An individual portion of pork pie! All his favourites! Add to this a small toy suitcase! Bright pink in colour! A memento of their first case together! Containing not a ring but a personalized dog tag! Of the kind he was used to wearing in the army! Because he doesn’t otherwise wear jewellery! Also! Music! A piece composed especially for his lover! Boyfriend! LoverBoyfriend!!”

All the exclamations were getting tiring, but the detective valiantly persisted, jabbing his finger in the air with each observation. It made the hem of the Belstaff rise up comically with every jab.

“You’re amaaaaaaaaaaaazing!” cooed the friend-and-colleague.

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

“It’s not the only thing I do out loud.” Friend-and-colleague grinned, then schooled his face to faux grumpiness and said, “I only regret that I found nobody to chase, punch, or shoot at, in this fine case, the pinnacle of your career.”

“Pfffsffsffssffft.” The scornful raspberry was a bit wet and the detective nearly fell over again. “You can punch someone next time.”

“Excellent,” his companion declared.

“EXCELLENT!” the detective agreed volubly. Then he began to giggle. The sleeves of the coat had fallen over his hands. He shook his arms and glared accusingly at the sleeves. “Fuck, you’re huge.”

The other half of the act preened and waggled his hips somewhat… well… _cockily_.

The detective, who looked a lot more like Sleepy from the Seven Dwarves by now, swooped over to his partner, folded a sleeve-encased hand over the other’s crotch and squeezed. “Yeah, there too.” He cheerfully let his hand be humped for a few moments before leaning closer, stretching up and planting a wayward kiss on the humper’s chin. “Whoops. Missed.”

The humper stopped humping and bent his knees to bring himself down to a more useful height, and puckered up. He received a noisy smacking kiss on the lips with closed eyes and a smug expression.

“You’re so little,” the former humper said, then placed his hand between the other’s legs. “But not here. Here you are huuuuuge.” Then it was his turn to be hand-humped for a bit.

“Your powers of observation are improving, Doctor,” said the detective with a fascinating combination of hauteur, approval and a little grunt in the back of the throat while he frotted his huuuuugeness against the hand between his legs.

“I know,” said the newly labelled Doctor. “I’ve observed something else.”

They both looked down between them to see two sets of trousers filled out pleasingly in the centre with thick, cylindrical outlines. The detective licked his lips. The doctor’s mouth dropped open in unconscious anticipation, or as though breathing in pheromones.

“Not that,” said the doctor suddenly. “This.” He reached into his own jacket pocket and pulled out a box.

“ _Surpriiiiiiiiiiise_!” said the detective as though he’d been the one to produce the box, and he giggled. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to the doctor’s grand nose. Well, to his eyebrow, but the intention was there. His aim, usually superb, was rendered off-centre by all the picnic champagne.

The doctor opened the box to reveal a small ring with a large decoration. He took out the ring and examined it, then used his thumbnail to spring a tiny catch on one side. The polished jade on top of the ring clicked open and swung back on a delicate hinge. Inside the revealed hollow of the ring was a wee square of white rice paper. Drawn on the tiny white square was a small red heart.

The doctor – who wasn’t at all a doctor – licked the tip of his index finger and dabbed it onto the square, lifting it up. Underneath the square was a grain of rice. He pushed it carefully with his fingernail and with his excellent eyesight he could very nearly read the markings on it. Easier to deduce them. _JW:SH._

“Happy anniversary, Sherlock,” half sang the detective – who, obviously, wasn’t a detective at all. His fingers snagged in the platinum dog tags hanging around his neck. The two tags were engraved identically. _John Watson_ on one side. _Sherlock Holmes_ on the other.

Sherlock dabbed the rice paper square back into the ring, snapped the ring shut, and held the piece in his closed palm. “A poison ring,” he said besottedly. “John. You love me.” He pushed the ring onto the pinkie of his left hand.

“I love you,” agreed John.

“I don’t really do those things, though.” Sherlock gestured at John wearing the Belstaff, “The. Declamatory… whirling.”

“Do too,” said John, nodding. “But you do a very bad _me_.”

“I do a perfect you,” Sherlock countered.

“I’ll do you over your armchair if you’re not careful.”

Sherlock made his eyes very wide and round. “You’re amaaaaaaaaaaaaazing, Sherlock!” Then he grinned wickedly. “Careless enough for ya?”

John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels – an action made a bit difficult by the fact his hands were still trapped in the sleeves of the Belstaff – and tugged Sherlock down for a sloppy kiss.

“Get your pants off, hot stuff, you’re in for an anniversary rogering.”

And before you could say “tizzy with champagne and anniversary-induced serotonin”, Sherlock had dropped his pants, hoiked his shirt and John’s jacket up to his armpits and dropped to his knees on the black armchair.  Arms clasped to the back of it for stability, he offered his ripe round bum for the taking.

John finally face-planted right in the centre of that bounty and hummed as he licked, poked, probed and nuzzled. He also pretty much pushed his face in there to keep his balance while he shook the Belstaff’s sleeves back up to his elbows, then used both hands to undo button and zip, then push his own trousers and boxers to his ankles.

“Lube, lube, lube,” he chanted as he came up for air.

“Pocket. Pocket. Left pocket. _LEFT_.”

John retrieved the conveniently located travel-bottle of lube from the Belstaff (he loved that Sherlock was always prepared) and squirted it generously into the place just vacated by his tongue. He tugged the sleeve of the Belstaff out of the way again and worked his fingers in there too.

Sherlock, kneeling on the armchair, hugged the back of it harder, jutted his arse out further, and started to offer encouragement. “Come on, John. Come on. Do me. I’ve been baaaaaaaad. Do me.”

John slapped Sherlock's bum. He smiled at the resulting wobble with a kind of contented glee.

“Do it right,” John then said mock-sternly, “This roleplay was your idea.”

It was a champagne-induced teasing gone nuts, actually, after the third glass of bubbly and feeding each other cupcakes in the park.

 _“A bee! Aaaaah. ‘Behold the simple honeybee, or_ Apis mellifera _. I once solved a case by observing honeybees in a mineshaft, blah blah blah…’”_

 _“It’s_ Bombus hortorum _, actually. A bumblebee. And I don’t talk like that, John.”_

_“Yes you do. Put that glare away. I like it. It’s **sexy**.”_

_“Idiot. Besides. There’s you. ‘I see about the bee and the mineshaft, but what’s all this about a parrot? Oi, you, hands off Sherlock or I’ll punch you in the eye.”_

_“I don’t.”_

_“You do. It’s **sexy**.”_

Somehow this led to them swapping coats and personas and pretending to be each other and, now, an anniversary rogering on the armchair.

Sherlock had jutted his bum out still further. “Fuck me, Sherlock, fuck me. You’re so amaaaaaaazing and you know sod-all about astronomy but I like your big dick!”

John smacked Sherlock’s bottom to watch it wobble again, then rubbed the spot and bent to kiss it better. “John, John, John,” he said, feigning a deeper voice, “You see but you do not observe. I am about to plunge my big dick into your saucy little arse. I will, indeed, fuck you stupid, so you’ll have an excuse.” Suiting deed to word, he lined the head of his cock up with Sherlock’s lube-shiny hole. With a little groan-sigh, he thrust carefully, and the crown of his cock pushed into the slippery pucker.

Sherlock groaned and pushed back against the pressure, easing another inch of John inside himself. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips; let go to shake the Belstaff’s sleeve out of the way again, grasped hips again and with regular short thrusts, pushed further in. By the time his cock was fully inside Sherlock, both men were panting and reverently cursing.

“You,” panted John, stroking Sherlock’s hips, “Are a conductor of light.”

“Best,” panted Sherlock into the back of the armchair.  “Best, best, best. And wisest. Fuck. God. God. Fuck me.”

John withdrew a fraction, pushed back in. He watched himself, sliding out. In. Did it again. Again, only faster. Pulling out more, pushing back in harder. Every time he pushed his cock inside, Sherlock rocked back against the motion. Soon any idea of a leisurely pace was abandoned. John thrust and thrust, watching the marks his thumbs made on Sherlock’s hips, watching the wobble of Sherlock’s bum as John’s hips met them; watching his cock plunging in and out of Sherlock’s arse.  He didn’t quite watch himself coming, because his eyes squeezed shut and he was all sensation – the heat of Sherlock’s bum against his hips and abdomen, the softness of skin and hardness of hip bones under his hands; the champagne- fizz of orgasm in all his nerve endings, up his cock and in his balls.

John folded down over Sherlock’s kneeling form, panting, forehead pressed to Sherlock’s spine, cock still up Sherlock’s arse, just starting to soften.

He reached around (stopping to shake that damned sleeve out of the way again) and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock – heavy, thick, wet with dribbled precome – and began to stroke.

“Come on, gorgeous” he urged, encouraged, praised. “Fuck, your cock is fantastic. Come for me. Come on. Fire up that huge cock for me.” His cock had slid out of Sherlock’s arse and come was oozing out and down his thighs and Sherlock’s. John humped his softened prick into Sherlock’s sticky crack anyway. His hand squeezed and tugged, thumb rubbing at Sherlock’s frenulum, over his slick slit, thumb settling still again while his hand moved firm and fast. “Show me. Shoot it off. Bullseye, right there on the chair. I want come everywhere. Come on, you. Fuck. Yeah. Come for me. Shoot it everywhere.”

Sherlock, panting, moaning _fuck fuck fuck,_ did as he was told, and shot come everywhere, three long stripes of it over the seat of his armchair, and another surge of it spirting over John’s knuckles. John’s black coat had escaped its confines some minutes ago and the edges of it dragged in the pool of semen on the leather.

John stayed folded over Sherlock for a moment, cheek against his spine. His anniversary gift dog tags were draped against Sherlock’s ribs. He hummed to himself, happy, still champagne-dizzy.

“You liked that,” said Sherlock, mostly to the chair.

“Mmm.”

“The conductor of light, thing. You liked that I said that.”

“Mm-hmm.” John turned his face to kiss Sherlock’s back, and his brain, muzzy with orgasm as well as champagne, made a dozy connection. “You like what I said. Best and wisest.”

A beat before, “Maybe.”

John pressed his grin into Sherlock’s skin and kissed the sweat on it. “Salty. Nice.” And then. “I may have got come on your coat.”

“I definitely have come on yours,” said Sherlock, not the least bit repentant.

John tried to back away, forgetting his trousers were around his ankles. He tipped backwards and landed on his bare bum on the hearthrug. After a quick Ow! He began to laugh.

“Not as graceful as you,” he admitted.

Sherlock crawled backwards off the chair more carefully, pulled his pants up over his sticky nethers and then folded down like a puppet to sit next to John on the rug. Then he tipped backwards until he was lying on the floor. He lifted his left arm into the air and admired the green jade ring adorning the pinkie. John’s black jacket pulled tightly down his arms but he ignored that.

John gave up trying to pull his pants up and sprawled on his back on the floor too. The Belstaff pooled around him. He unbuttoned his shirt and placed his hand over the platinum tags resting on his sternum. The metal was warm against his palm.

Sherlock’s left hand dropped onto his bare belly and he turned his head towards John.

“John.”

John turned towards Sherlock. “Hmm?”

“You’re amaaaaaaaazing.”

They grinned at each other, soft and dozy.

“And you’re the best kind of idiot,” said John.

Sherlock grinned as though this were a great compliment, before concluded, “We should move before we fall asleep here.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to wake up because Mrs Hudson’s popped up to dust and she’s found us lying here with our cocks out.”

The very vision was mortifying enough to drive them both to their feet. John stepped out of his shoes and his trip-inducing, ankle-tangled jeans. He scooped the latter up while Sherlock kicked off shoes and socks, and they retired to share a hot shower.

Later, when Mrs Hudson waltzed in with the mail, Sherlock and John were in their respective armchairs (Sherlock had managed to clean up the sticky spot on his chair with one of his socks) looking fresh and innocent.

Well. As innocent as these two well-fucked and still slightly drunk men with their taste for adventure _can_ look.

None of that kept Mrs Hudson from standing in the space between the two armchairs, chin tilted up, a twinkle in her eye, and declaring, in her best show-off voice:

“An anniversary, I perceive! Don’t look surprised, that’s _boring_ of you. Dr Watson’s got love bites on his neck, underneath his shiny new chain he keeps fiddling with. He doesn’t wear jewellery normally, and he’s got a soppy expression when he plays with it, so it’s a gift, and nobody would give him a soppy gift except his boyfriend – that’s you dear,” she nodded at Sherlock, “Don’t try to deny it. You don’t wear jewellery either, but you’ve got a ring on, and your expression is no less soppy than his. Honestly, you act like I’ve never noticed the way you two look at each other.”

Mrs Hudson turned at the door as she was leaving, the twinkle much more marked. “Oh, and if you want to cover up your anniversary sex on the furniture, you should make less noise; and remember to put the underpants I can see under Sherlock’s  chair in the wash.” She turned back to John. “And don’t you start with your effing and blinding and pretending it’s got nothing to do with you. They’re your pants.”

She smiled brightly, all mischief, said “Happy anniversary!” Then she was gone.

John breathed slowly in and out and tried to make his face less pink. Opposite him, Sherlock steepled his fingers and considered the recent scene.

Finally, he said, “Mrs Hudson’s impression of me is terrible. Yours is much better.”

John accepted this without comment, not even any effing or blinding. As a veteran of London University, Kandahar, Helmand and Bart's Bloody Hospital, not to mention a decade with the unpredictable Sherlock Holmes, shame was never going to win over amusement. Especially since he was still tiddly.

"Tut, tut," he said pipingly, wagging his finger at Sherlock and pursing his lips like a certain recently departed landlady, "And pick up those pants! I'm not your housekeeper, dear! Would you like a cup of tea?"

Sherlock sniggered. John sniggered.

Though later John did indeed pick up his own pants. Mrs Hudson's forebearance only went so far.


End file.
